Shocked into Reality
by Etimire T
Summary: What if one morning the Doctor and Sherlock Holmes wake up and realize they've switched bodies? Can they stop the switch from continuing to happen? How does this affect their friends? Now they must travel across universes to find each other and set things right.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: What if one morning the Doctor and Sherlock Holmes wake up and realize they've switched bodies? Now they must travel across universes to find each other and set things right.

Disclaimer: I do not and never will own Doctor Who, or Sherlock. Their awesomeness belongs to BBC.

Timeline: The Doctor and Amy are traveling without Rory after he's swallowed by the crack. This is right after that episode with Van Gogh. Sherlock is between episode 2 and 3 of season three. Here you go!

0o0o0o

Amy Pond watched her not-so-imaginary, and rather awkward friend whiz about the consol. He babbled on about something, managing to fit what would be whole paragraph of words into one, continuous sentence. His smile was large and contagious, and his bowtie displayed the color of the TARDIS.

"You see Amelia, that's why the polarity of a blue sheep is _so_ much stronger than a white sheep's." He said, spinning in a circle before grabbing a knob, pressing a doorbell, and pulling the 'green pulling thingy,' as he called it. "_So_!" he shouted, grabbing Amy's shoulders, "You've seen weeping angels, a star whale, Van Gogh; where do you want to go next?"

Amy grinned. She loved it when he said that, her beloved Doctor. "How about a beach or something, I'm itching for somewhere hot."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows, looking like a child on Christmas morning. "What about Rio?" he suggested, "Rio is brilliant, love Rio, that. The fish blow bubbles under the water, and when they reach the surface, the bubbles don't pop! They just keep going upwards like little balloons! Oh! And did I mention the ocean is rainbow colored?" He laughed, which made Amy smirk.

The Doctor was the most child-like person she'd even met, and yet at the same time, he managed to be one of the oldest alive. It baffled her if she tried to think about it to much. Amy cocked her head quizzically, only half listening to his double-time description of Rio. In a few moments, she would see it for herself. "Not Earth's Rio, then?"

The Doctor laughed, "_What_?! Earth's Rio? No! I'm talking the _planet_Rio! They're got bub-"

"Yeah, yeah, you already said that, old man."

The Doctor huffed at her, clearly annoyed, "I know I already said it! But _you_ weren't listening the first time!"

Amy rolled her eyes, her bright red hair falling gracefully down her back. "I was too!"

"No you weren't, you had your not-listening face on."

"I did not! I don't have a not-listening face!" Amy argued.

"Yes you do! See? You're wearing it again." The Doctor tapped her nose before dancing off.

"No!" She countered, "It's just my face, my normal face."

"Well if that's true, than no wonder you never pay attention when I say not to wander off." The Doctor retorted.

Amy was about to come up with a witty and wilting reply, when the TARDIS suddenly jerked to the side, sending the ginger tumbling to the glass floor. An alarm blared and the lights flickered. "Doctor?!" she shouted, not out of fear, but primarily annoyance. This sort of situation seemed to happen a lot.

"_Fine_!" The Doctor shouted, shoving the consol screen he clung to. It took Amy a few moments to realize the alien was taking to his ship, not to her. "Do what you want! All I want is to land on a nice, peaceful planet? Why can you _never_ give me that?" he wasn't really angry, Amy could see, but the Doctor huffed in annoyance anyway.

The Scottish redhead tried to stand, but was thrown from her feet once more as the TARDIS shuttered. "What's wrong?" she cried above the alarms.

The Doctor didn't look at her, but she could see his shoulders stiffen.

"_Doctor_?!" she tried again.

"Why?" he mused, scratching his head once before clinging to the consol again, "What are you trying to do, you naughty, naughty machine?" Suddenly the bowtie clad man shouted in pain, stumbling backwards. His TARDIS shocked him!

"_Tell me what's happening_!" Amy practically screamed. The Doctor swung backwards on the metal bars before regaining his feet.

"I don't know!" he said. Amy's eyebrows rose. It was not everyday the Doctor said he didn't know something. "Everything's gone mad. It's like the TARDIS is drawing power from the Time Vortex, but that's only done when she needs extra power for something."

"Like?" Amy asked, finally managing to stay on her feet.

The Doctor shrugged. "Could be anything!"

"_Anything_?"

The Doctor was grinning manically, which Amy wasn't sure whether to find disturbing or exciting. "Hold on tight, Amelia Pond! It's gonna be a rough landing!"

Amelia screamed in fear and excitement. But suddenly she felt her heart bound into her throat. Something was wrong, as they fell, the Doctor's usually fast movements slowed to a crawl, and his eyes met hers for a brief second before they rolled backwards, "Am-" he started, and then he tumbled to floor beneath the consol.


	2. Chapter 2

0o0o0o

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, decidedly bored; however, this wasn't much of a novelty, especially since he hadn't had a case for three days now. It was _killing_ him! Why did life have to be so- so _dull_! He didn't know how John managed to live this way. John and his newlywed wife, Mary, had just bought a house, leaving him alone at 221B Baker's St. with Mrs. Hudson's constant badgering. Ugh… Why were human beings not made with a mute button?

John and Mary Watson were living in the monotonous, typical way everyone else on the planet seemed to enjoy. What was _wrong_ with them?! Did they not get bored like him? Sherlock knew the answer. Of course they didn't; their minds were too occupied with rubbish to get bored. In contrast, Sherlock was constantly shifting through his vast stores of information and deleting anything not useful, which left him wanting to do anything, _anything_ to keep from staying still and sipping this cup of tea as he sat in his robe. It was twelve o'clock. Sherlock noted, and still no clients. What was the deal with these people? Didn't they have any problems? Why did everything have to be so bloody _serene_? It was despicable.

"Ugh." Sherlock groaned, slipping deeper into the chair. His curly hair was ruffled, uncared for, and his eyes were dark from lack of sleep. Sherlock was beyond caring. If he could get a case, then he'd be fine. He just needed something, _anything_ to keep him entertained. Even an obvious, rubbish case would do.

Sherlock's spirits rose as he remembered John would be visiting later today. It had been at least two weeks since he last saw him, and Sherlock supposed he wouldn't mind the man's chatter if he brought along a murder to solve. John often did when one of his blog readers emailed him.

Sherlock turned to his phone and clicked desperately on the 'new messages' button, hoping maybe someone posted something on his Science of Deduction site. John's blog was absolute rubbish, but it usually managed to bring in more requests than Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't have a clue why. His much more sophisticated site still had nothing for him. Sherlock stared at the zero, daring it to remain the same.

Fantastic. What now?

Standing suddenly, Sherlock made his way pass experiments and boxes of this and that. Perhaps he'd continue the experiment he was working on last night… Sherlock picked a tongue out of a bottle of greenish-brown chemicals using chopsticks and stared at it in annoyance. He was trying to discover how to make the blue tongue of a dead man return to its original color. Sherlock didn't know the practical purposes of this yet, but he assured himself that he would fine one, besides, he was just so _bored_! Returning the tongue, he reached his hands above his head, stretching like a cat.

Suddenly he felt something shock the tips of his fingers. Crying out in surprise, Sherlock spun around, dropping his cup of tea, which shattered on the floor. He stared at the wall his fingers had briefly met. Oddly, the spot he'd touched was colored dark blue. It didn't make sense.

_No electrical lines around. _

_ Static electricity? _

_ No. Shock too large to be static._

_ What then?_

He leaned in closer to the wall, studying the spot. Why was the smudge on the wall _blue_? It had no reason to be, and as far as he knew, shocks might create black marks, but not _blue_. He sighed, moving on, but suddenly, his head felt like it weighed a million pounds. Sherlock stumbled out of the kitchen, tripping over a box of test tubes. What was wrong? He fell onto the couch and fought to remain conscious.

_Drugged?_

_ Not a chance. _

_ I would have noticed_

_ Well, you're not infallible._

_ Yes I am… mostly._

_ Illness, then?_

_ No, I was fine moments ago._

_ Then it must be the… _Sherlock's world faded into black mid-thought, and he fell into a pillow on the couch.


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor tried to open his eyes and failed. He felt… weird, and more tired than he'd been in ages. What? He didn't get tired unless he regener…

The Doctor flinched. _Oh Rassilon! Did I die? I don't remember- Wait no, that's ridiculous!_ Of course he didn't regenerate; this was his last body. The Doctor tried to open his eyes once more, and failed again. _What happened?_

_ Amy!_ He remembered suddenly. The TARDIS was acting up again. She shocked him, and they were crashing. _We must have landed_, he thought. He couldn't feel them falling anymore. Reaching out to the TARDIS, the alien was startled to find himself alone. He couldn't feel his ship's consciousness anywhere, and it left him feeling empty.

Right. So he wasn't in the TARDIS, at the moment couldn't move, and he had no idea where his companion was; basically, his life in a sentence.

_The first thing I need to do is figure out where I am, and to do that I need to open my eyes._

He could hear a voice, calling him. The Doctor latched onto the sound, using it as a rope to climb into consciousness. Groaning, the Doctor realized he was lying face down in a cushion of some sort. Someone rolled him over, and the Doctor finally opened his eyes.

Staring at him with concern was a youngish man with kind, but reserved blue eyes and blonde hair. "Are you ok?" the man said. He spoke to him with the familiarity of a friend, which only confused the Doctor. Did he know this man? No of course not. He never forgot a face. "I've been shaking you for like, ten minutes. How long did you stay awake? Three days? Four?" the man looked annoyed, "You shouldn't do that. It's bad for you."

The Doctor frowned, sitting up slowly. He stared at the chaotic loft. On the wall was a spray painted smiley face, shot at by gun holes. There was a moose head on the wall above a fireplace. It was wearing headphones. Bookcases were cram packed with books other knickknacks. To the casual eye the room might seem disorganized and cluttered, but the Doctor knew immediately that whoever's house this was had a specific place for everything, even if the places were a bit unorthodox. He knew because that's exactly how _he_ would do things. The Doctor smirked, wondering who inhabited the loft. He had a feeling that they would either hit off immediately, or totally hate each other. That happened a lot when he met people with a similar personality to his. He stared at the man in front of him. The man removed a conglomeration of papers seated on a chair, and sat down. "So," the man said. "Aren't you gonna say something? Usually you give me a lecture about your superiority, and how sleep is for the simple minded of planet Earth."

The Doctor blinked. The man obviously thought they knew each other. Perhaps they've met in the future? That tended to happen sometimes. "I-" the Doctor started, and then stopped. _Falling stars, that's not my voice_.

He shook his head, and the man stared at him in confusion. "Still asleep, ey?"

Maybe the voice thing was just a glitch. The Doctor tried again. "Sorry, where am I? Earth?" _Ok, so not a glitch_. Maybe he'd had an extra regeneration stuck up there somewhere_. I guess it could happen…_

The man laughed. "Funny, spaceman. You obviously have had too much time on your hands and not enough sleep."

"Yes for the amount of time, no for the amount of sleep. I don't need it." The Time Lord said.

The man rolled his eyes like they'd had this conversation a million times. "Look, Sherlock, you can hole up in that crazy head of yours for as long as you want, but it's not going to change the biological facts. Humans need sleep, and although sometimes you _act_ like a bloody machine, you aren't."

The Doctor blinked. "Sorry, what did you call me?"

The man frowned, "A machine?"

"No, no, before."

"Sherlock?" the man was clearly confused.

The Doctor laughed a short laugh that was not his own. The man seemed startled. "What? Like Sherlock Holmes?" he snorted. "The greatest detective to ever live, or rather, ever thought up."

"Well someone's got an ego today…"

The Doctor shook his head, "He's a fictional character." He smirked, "And who are you, then? John Watson?"

John was startled, realizing his friend was just guessing his name, like he hadn't known it before. "Of course. Sherlock, are you okay?" Sherlock often acted strange, but this was different. Before him was his best friend, and yet at the same time, it almost wasn't. _But that's impossible_. John told himself. Sherlock's mannerisms were different than the Sherlock he was staring at, and the man actually _smiled_. Not the fake one he gave people, but a real _actual_ smile. John realized the only time he'd seen Sherlock do that was when he was smack-dab in the middle of a case.

Standing up suddenly, the Doctor did a small skip step before turning to John. "I'm fine, _John. _As I said, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are fictional. They're characters in a book written in the nineteenth century by Arthur Conan Doyle." The world tipped for a moment as the Doctor adjusted to his legs. The Doctor realized he was taller than he was before. How was he taller if he hadn't regenerated? The Doctor kept trying to convince himself he must have died, but he knew in his hearts that he hadn't. A sudden thought struck him and the Doctor felt for his pulse. There was only one way to find out if this 'John' was telling the truth. The Doctor's hand was covered in little busies and bits of paper to cover tiny cuts, like he'd been injected repeatedly, and his fingers were long and thin. The Doctor's eyes went wide in disgust the moment he felt the blood running beneath his skin. Two beats. "Oh, that is just _wrong_! _Human_? I've only got one heart!"

John was seriously worried now. Fictional characters? One heart? Who was Arthur Conan Doyle? "For someone so smart, you are such an idiot." He muttered, "What the heck did you do to yourself, Sherlock? I need to know what chemicals you've been pumping through you."

John tried to grab a hold of his friend's arm, but The Doctor pushed him away, seeming to contemplate something. "So I'm Sherlock Holmes and you're John Watson? Ha! That's a bit brilliant, well no; actually it's really bad, because _I'm_ not Sherlock Holmes, I just got put here somehow." The Doctor paced back and forth for a moment, and John watched him in shock and worry. Suddenly the Doctor stopped, snapping his fingers. "Parallel universe, that has to be it." He smiled, "What's really interesting is that this is the 21st century, judging by technology, and Sherlock Holmes is supposed to live in the 19th. Not sure how that works, I'll figure it out later."

John gulped. _Sherlock's lost it_. He thought; _he's finally lost it_. After just getting his friend back, why did fate have to tear him away again?

John sighed, wondering what his best course of action was. Sherlock was larger than him, and he doubted he'd be able to _drag_ the suborn man to Molly to get a drug test.

The Doctor gave a short laugh and raced dizzily down the hall. He was still getting a hold of these long legs. "I need a mirror! Why doesn't he own a mirror?" he shouted back a Watson, whose face was white. The Doctor cringed_; he probably thinks his friend's gone mad._

The Doctor tore into a bedroom and found a full length one hanging on the door. He froze, staring at himself. "Well that's interesting," the Doctor murmured, "I did rather imagine him like this, course, he doesn't have the pipe thingy and that hat." The Doctor placed his hand on his head to mimic the accessory.

John followed him into the bedroom he used to own when he lived at Bakers Street. "You hate that hat." John murmured.

"Does he?" the Doctor laughed, "Then why always wear it?"

"The media caught you in it once and just went crazy." John answered. "You don't wear it unless it's necessary."

"Typical… Humans have a thing for exaggeration." The Doctor spun around in a circle, inspecting the robe and Sherlock's aquiline face. He was decently handsome, the Doctor decided. "Thought he'd be taller." He commented.

John sighed, "Can you stop that?"

"Stop what?"

"Acting like you aren't Sherlock."

The Doctor opened his mouth, closed it, "But I'm not." He said with the smirk Sherlock wore when he figured out something brilliant, but wouldn't tell what.

John frowned, "Yes you are." He said slowly, his heart hurting for his friend. This was bad.

"No, I'm not really. I just got put in him somehow. Not sure where the actual Sherlock is, I'll figure that out. I was in my TARDIS with Amy and then that stupid machine started acting up. We were crashing, but then I was here. I don't have a clue how that worked out, but I'm a genius; I'll figure it out… eventually."

John blinked. "Did you just say TARDIS? Like, Doctor Who TARDIS?"

The Doctor frowned, "I have no idea what a 'Doctor Who' is but, I take it you do."

"Oh dear lord, you always hated that show." John said. _He doesn't actually think he's the…_ John shook his head, Sherlock never understood John's obsession with the British TV show, but here he was, thinking he was one of the characters...

The Doctor grinned, "Oh that's clever! In this world _I'm_ fiction, and in my world you and Sherlock are!"

Laughing was never something Sherlock did, but here he was, laughing. John was petrified. What do you do when your best friend wakes up thinking he's a fictional character?

"That's absolutely fascinating!" the Doctor remarked after a moment. "Brilliant, even; I knew she was up to something, but I never imagined the TARDIS would do something like this!"

The man before John looked exactly like Sherlock, but the resemblance ended there. He spoke different, he walked different, and the way he waved his arms as he talked was just about as non-Sherlock as he could get. _Is this what it's like to see someone with a multiple personality disorder? _John thought._ That has to be what's wrong, either that, or he's on drugs. Why has he never told me about this? Has he always had this other him locked away inside somewhere? Which person is the original?_ John shook the thoughts away; _his_ Sherlock was the original, obviously. He hoped.

"_Riiight_" John said, biting his lip, "Look, get dressed, alright? I'm gonna take you to Molly."

"Sorry who?" the not-Sherlock said, "Is she a friend of Sherlock's-er- me?"

"Yes, well, sort of. She hates you." John scratched the back of his neck.

The Doctor frowned, "Why?" he asked.

John snorted, "She used to be obsessed, probably still is, but you said some things to her, not on purpose, you'd never do it on purpose, but you hurt her. She's engaged to a _Tom_ now, I think."

The Doctor nodded. "Yeah, Sherlock was never very good at making friends." He walked out of the bedroom that had once been John's, and then poked his head back in again. "Oh yes, right. John?"

"Yeah?"

"What does he usually wear?"


	4. Chapter 4

0o0o0o

Sherlock gasped, sitting upright and nearly head-butting the red haired girl who leaned over him. She let out a shriek of surprise, staring at his face in confusion. Sherlock's heart was racing like he'd run a marathon, and the exhilaration made Sherlock want to jump to his feet and do something ridiculous. He coughed, trying to slow down the manic beating in his chest. After a moment, the sensation seemed to fade as he adjusted to it. The woman was still staring at him.

He felt disoriented and he wondered again if he'd been drugged. Looking around him, Sherlock realized he was in a metal room of some sort. Wires clung to the ceiling and made their way upwards to a computer command center. Fires were slowly dying everywhere, like there had been an explosion, and the room was filled with smoke. How did he get here? Glancing at the woman, he automatically began deducing.

_Scottish,_

_ Mid twenties,_

_ Recently lost a loved one,_

_ A traveler, adventurous,_

_ Was in an accident of some sort not so long ago, judging by her hair; Car? Plane? Explosion? Obviously an explosion._

He shook his head violently_, NO! Shut up! You need to concentrate!_

"Doctor?" the fiery woman said, looking rather frightened, "Doctor? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Sherlock blinked. "Sorry, who?" he frowned. His voice sounded different. _The metal walls must be messing with sound, making it echo._

The woman's face lost its color. "Oh stars, did you hit your head or something?"

"I- um, no. I don't think so." He got to his feet and wobbled backwards. Falling into a swing of some sort, Sherlock pushed the woman away when she attempted to steady him. Shaking his head, he tried calm the nausea rolling through him. "Can you tell me where I am, miss?" he rubbed his eyes, and then stared at his hands in shock. They weren't his.

The woman gulped, "You don't know who I am?"

"Er-no." he answered distractedly, baffled. He quickly inspected the rest of himself. Sherlock realized entire body was different, almost as if he was another person. _What_? "Should I know you?" he said, "No of course not, I remember every face I see, and I've never seen yours before. Now where am I? I was at Bakers Street waiting for John, and then…" Sherlock trailed off, unsure. "Was I drugged? Kidnapped? Did someone capture you too?" She was not the kidnapper. That much Sherlock could see.

The woman held her hand up to her mouth in shock. "Doctor, it's me, Amy. Why don't you know me?" She looked afraid and concerned. Obviously she cared deeply about the person she was mistaking Sherlock to be.

Sherlock groaned, holding his head. "I don't know who this 'Doctor' is, but I'm _not_ him."

Amy's heart was beating in her throat as she stared in fear at the Doctor. How could he forget? How could he not know her? The man before her had a calculating expression that she'd never seen the Doctor wear. He was calm and dignified, as if he was above everyone else. Suddenly a look of anger came over her, and Amy stepped up quickly. "No," she said, "You're not."

Her hand stung sharply against Sherlock's cheek. "Ah!" he cried, "What was that for?!"

Amy pushed Sherlock out of the swinging chair the Doctor always sat in when he tinkered. Falling awkwardly backwards, Sherlock felt Amy's bare foot keeping him glued to the ground. "Get out of him!" she shouted, "I don't care how you got inside his head, but you have to leave. Get out!"

"I don't- I don't know what yo-"

"Shut up! Just shut up! I've seen stone angels that send people through time! I've watched men turn into nuclear bombs, and I've been to planets trillions of light years from Earth, do you hear? Do not underestimate me you- you, whatever you are. _Get out of his head_!"

"I don't know what you mean!" Sherlock shrieked, very embarrassingly. _Gah_, he was glad John wasn't here. The man would have never let him alone about it. The detective continued on with a bit more restraint. "I don't know why I'm here or why I look all different, _please_, just stop stepping on me!" Confusion shined in the eyes of a man who never, _ever_ let anyone see his emotions. He couldn't help it. For the first time in his life Sherlock was presented with a situation he didn't know how to deal with.

Amy stared suspiciously at the not-Doctor. He was scared, she noted, and he _had_ seemed rather disoriented when he woke up. What was it the not-Doctor said about Bakers Street? Giving him a last shove with her foot for good measure, she stood back. "You don't know how you got here?"

"Ah, no. I was at my house and then I just sort of…" Sherlock realized he couldn't remember what happened next.

"Sort of what?" Amy questioned

"I dunno." Sherlock murmured, surprise evident in his voice, it wasn't every day he said that. "I can't remember exactly. I think-" Sherlock stood up slowly, attempting to keep his balance. He dusted himself off, noting with distaste that he was wearing a suspenders and a bow-tie. _What sort of idiot wears a bow-tie? _"I was shocked by something, and was investigating. I remember there was no way a blank wall could have given me such a shock, and then I just... collapsed."

Amy frowned, scratching her head. Sherlock noticed she was resting her hand lightly on the metal railing of the staircase, overly nonchalant about the action. The ginger was up to something…

Amy felt her fingers fall against the cool metal, and she reached desperately to the TARDIS with her mind, hoping she heard her. _If the man is telling the trut_h, she begged,_ have metal get warmer, if he was lying, get colder._

At first there was no response from the ship, and Amy sighed inwardly. What on Earth was she expected to do with a Doctor who wasn't the Doctor, and might very possibly be evil? _Please_! She begged the stubborn machine. _I need your help_.

The TARDIS was always contented when someone needed _her_ help and hers alone. After another moment, the metal railing heated up. Amy exhaled in relief. If the TARDIS trusted whoever was in the Doctor's head, then she supposed she had to also.

Amy realized the not-Doctor was watching her peculiarly. "Do you believe me now?" he said.

Amy frowned, _how could he possibly kn_-

"It's obvious, really. You said your name's Amy?"

Amy nodded.

"Well then, _Amy_. Next time you're trying to be discrete about something, don't over compensate. If it's too clear you are trying to not notice something, it becomes noticeable. Now, somehow by touching that railing you've been affirmed that I'm not lying to you, not sure how, but it's a reasonable assumption. Perhaps you have a mongering device of some sort under the rail?"

Amy blinked. "Who _are_ you?"

The not-Doctor gave a tired smile, "Sherlock Holmes, private detective."

With a snort, Amy waited for the railing to cool, but it remained stubbornly warm. She chuckled, looking at the not-Doctor curiously. "But he's just fiction. I used to be obsessed with the books, read them all as a kid."

"Ridiculous." Sherlock sniffed, "No one's written about me, well, besides John. He's got a blog, absolute rubbish."

Amy felt a smirk working up her face. Okay, if she could travel through time with a two hearted alien, why couldn't Sherlock Holmes exist? "Wait, John as in John Watson? He's real too?"

The not-Doctor gave her an _are-you-seriously-that-stupid_ look. "Jeeze, where do you live? Under a rock? You're Scottish, going by your accent, but I'm certain I'm known of there just as well as London."

If Sherlock Holmes had not been stuck in her best friend's mind at that current moment, Amy might have collapsed into fandom mode. "You're from Earth then?" she said instead, "I've never heard of you… I mean outside of the books, but then again, they _were_ set in the nineteenth century. That's probably where you live."

Sherlock opened his moth and then closed it, "Ah, no. I live in the twenty-first century." He frowned, a bit baffled. "Look, you seem to have a better understanding of what's happened, please explain why I am here. Why I'm dressed like this?" he pointed down at the bowtie.

Amy smirked, "I think the Doctor missed the fashion train. He always dresses like that."

"And I look like him?"

Amy shook her head, "No, you are him- well, you're _in_ him."

"That's ridiculous!"

"When you're adventuring with the Doctor, you learn to redefine ridiculous…" the ginger answered.

Sherlock snorted, "And he wears _bowties_? How old is he, 90?"

Amy laughed, "Oh you have no idea, I actually think he's nine hundred and seven."

"Seriously?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He could tell she wasn't joking, but that made no sense.

"Yes, seriously!" Amy smiled, more at ease now. "Nine hundred and seven. I don't know, maybe bowties are the thing on his planet."

Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter, "What are you saying? He's from another planet?"

Amy opened her mouth and then shut it again. She knew from the stories Sherlock Holmes was not the sort to believe in aliens or time travel. "I- yes, well, I'll just show you."


	5. Chapter 5

0o0o0o

Not-Sherlock and John came waltzing into the lab, Sherlock grinning excitedly, and John looking like he might puke. Sherlock's arm hung casually over his friend's shoulder, and he talked a million miles an hour. His coat was unbuttoned and his scarf unwrapped. Usually he tucked his clothes in very tight, like he was holding out against the world. It made him seem more aloft that way; however, how he acted now, Sherlock almost looked relaxed.

Molly looked up from her clip board, her eyes meeting John's. She opened her mouth in a little O, but suddenly she found herself wrapped in a tight hug. Sherlock swung her around, and Molly shrieked in shock. Sherlock _never_ voluntarily supply human contact besides the occasional, awkward handshake, and even that was rare.

At the sound of her cry, Sherlock quickly released her. "Oh, yes, that's right. John said you hate him-er me. Sorry about that. You must be Molly?"

John walked up behind his friend and mouthed an apology to her. "Sherlock," he moaned, "You know her."

"Yes, I know _he_ does." The not-Sherlock said in annoyance. He turned to Molly. "Whatever Sherlock did to you, Molly, I'm sure he didn't mean it." He gave her a small smile.

Molly backed up, clearly flustered, "Sorry, what? Sherlock, what's wrong with-"

"Sherlock!" John interrupted, "How about you go to some… lab stuff over there." He gestured to the other side of the laboratory.

Sherlock huffed, looking like an eight year old banished to his room so the adults may talk. "Yeah, sure. I'll just leave." He muttered sarcastically, leaving John and Molly alone.

"John? What the _heck_ is wrong with-"

John sighed, running a hand over his tired face. "I don't know, Molly. That's why I brought him to you." He bit his lip, "I came over to Bakers Street about an hour ago. He was asleep."

"And?"

"When I woke him up, he was just like this," John gestured at his friend, who was busily throwing 'boring' science equipment over his shoulders.

"He thinks I'm on drugs!" Sherlock piped up from across the room, "But I'm not, believe me, I'd know!"

"_Sherlock_!" both Molly and John shouted.

"Sorry! Not listening!"

John sighed, "Can you give him a drug test? I think he tried to experiment on himself or something."

Nodding, Molly stared in shock at this alternate man. "It's like he's another person." She whispered.

John scratched the back of his neck, "Yes, well, that's the other problem. He thinks he's…"

"Thinks he's who?" Molly prompted.

"The Doctor." John sighed, "He's fully convinced; won't shut up about it."

Molly snorted, pulling a pale hand to her mouth. "What? The alien from the sy-fi show?"

John looked at her in irritation. "Molly! This isn't fu-"

"I know!" she interrupted, chuckling, "I know! But it's just ridiculous! This is _Sherlock_ we're talking about. He doesn't even know the Earth goes around the sun!"  
John cracked a small smile then, "Yes, but that just makes this whole situation more ridiculous." He paused, "Tell me if the test is negative or not."

"What if he's clean?" Molly wanted to know.

John thought for a moment, glancing at Sherlock. "Then I think we may have a large problem on our hands."

0o0o0o

AN: Thanks to all you amazing people who took the time to read my rubbish, haha. So do you think Sherlock reacted 'in character' to the situation he was put in? What about the Doctor? Please tell me what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

0o0o0o

The illogicality of this entire situation was making Sherlock's head spin. He liked everything to have a certain order, and this day had absolutely nil. Amy tried to grab his hand to pull the detective up the spiraling stairs and out the door of the smoky room, but he'd quickly stuck the appendage into his pant pocket. Giving Sherlock an odd look, the girl shrugged and climbed alone. After a few minutes of avoiding random spurts of flame, and sparking wires, Sherlock and Amy reached the door. He could see his reflection in the glass at his feet, and he stared in shock. "Ah- wow. I look like that?" he pointed at his reflection. The man was not nearly as tall as Sherlock was, and he looked almost boyish with his floppy brown hair and young face. "How on Earth-"

Amy bit her lip, "I don't know how it's possible, but apparently it is. The TARDIS said you aren't lying, so I believe you didn't mean to get in his head."

He glanced at her, shaking his head. Yet again, Sherlock was baffled. He hoped this wasn't becoming a pattern. What do you do when you wake up looking like another person? "I don't understand, how is going outside going to convince me your friend is an-"

"Just watch." Amy said, rolling her eyes. She cracked open the door, stuck her head out, and then flung them open. Grinning like a child, she climbed out into the bright light.

Sherlock frowned, processing the outcomes of this situation. He saw no reason to stay within the metal room. Whatever the woman thought was out there, he doubted it would convince him he was somehow inside the body of an otherworlder. That was _outrageous_.

_Then again, so is waking up in another human's body…_

_Shut up_. He told himself, then without any more hesitation, the not-Doctor stepped into the light.

The moment he exited the metal room, Sherlock's stomach flipped and his ears popped painfully. "Gah!" he shouted, nearly falling back into the TARDIS. A hand grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him upwards. He gripped the door frame and fell outside into the mud.

"Sorry, I would have warned you if I'd known. The TARDIS had a centralized gravity, basically makes the floor always feel down, even if it's really up.

Sherlock blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light. They were in a large crater of some sort, and the ginger was sitting on a blue police box, which was the center of the depression. It was tipped backwards so the door faced the cloudy, lightning-filled sky. Amy's legs dangling within its depths. Immediately, Sherlock's mind spun in circles, searching for an answer. How did he walk out of the box when the floor would have been going up like a wall?

Amy could see the man's bewilderment, and she sympathized. "I don't understand either. It's all science and stuff, but it works somehow."

Sherlock jumped to his feet, circling the box. There was no way that such a large metal room could fit inside that small of a wooden case… "It must go into the ground." Sherlock muttered, even though he knew that wasn't logical. He crouched down to examine it. The box was tipped slightly, so he could see the back wall.

After several moments of silence, he heard the girl give a small snort of unsuccessfully contained laughter. Sherlock looked up indignantly, "_What_?"

She covered her mouth, "Sorry, sorry, it's just, I never thought I'd see the Doctor baffled by the whole bigger on the inside thing!"

"One," Sherlock said with a huff, holding up a finger, "I'm not the _Doctor_, and two," he held up another finger, "I'm not _baffled_!"

"Look at you! Sherlock Holmes, baffled by a space ship!"

"Stop it!" He complained, "It's not a space ship! It's a 1950s Police Box. I did a study on them once."

Amy's eyebrows rose. "You did a study on _Police Boxes_, and you didn't hear about this one?"

"Of course I've heard of _this_ one, but I try to avoid that television show, Amy. Its fiction and ridiculous, and not worth my time."

"Wait," a mischievous smirk lit Amy's face, "There's a TV show about the Doctor in your world?" the red-head kicked her legs excitedly, "I'm I in it?"

Sherlock shook his head, "How should I know? I. Don't. Watch. It."

Amy huffed, taming a misplaced strand of fire, shoving it behind her ear. "Look," she sighed, "You can think whatever you want, but the reality is you are stuck in my best friend's head, and we've crash landed in a blue box on another planet _probably_ in the future."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it though?"

Sherlock turned away, breathing in deeply, "The year's 4567, he suddenly blurted, unable to stop his mouth.

"What?"

Sherlock frowned, "May twenty-first, three thirty in the afternoon." Smacking a hand onto his mouth, he looked at Amy in confusion. How could he possibly know the time? Despite his misgivings, he just _knew_, it was like he could taste it in the air. He stuck his tongue out quickly, and then back in again. _4567, definitely_.

Amy watched him, surprise written in her eyes. "I always thought the Doctor was joking when he said he could taste time, but…" she trailed off as Sherlock nodded, unable to come up with a response to that.

_Years don't have a taste, you idiot. Why do years suddenly have a taste?_ He leaned against the blue box, which hummed pleasantly at his touch. Neither of them noticed. _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

_Shut up. That does not work in this case._

_It works in every case!_

_Quiet!_ Sherlock ended his silent argument, and slowly removed his hand from his mouth. No more random blurts. Good. Sherlock bit his lip and moved to the side of the crater. Beginning to climb out, he slipped and slid very un-dignifying manner.

"Hey! Where're you going?" the red head called, hopping down. She'd put on a pair of blue converses.

"There's only one way to prove this isn't Earth, like you say."

"What's that, then?" Amy skipped after him, managing to climb up the mounds of dirt much easier than the detective.

"We find something alie-" Sherlock froze as he reached the rise, peering over. At least fifty men and woman with the bodies of a person and the heads of a jackal met his sharp eyes. "Well," Sherlock gulped, "Something like that."

They had weapons of some sort trained at Amy and him, and the ginger slowly raised her hands, "We come in peace!" she shouted, hoping it was the right thing to say. It's what aliens in the movies always did… Amy glanced down at the not-Doctor "This is usually when you do something brilliant."

* * *

**AN:Right, So. It's really rather late, but because I was absolutely blown away by the amount of reviews I got on the last chapters, I've sacrificed sleep for you lot! Anyway, thanks for the reviews! THEY ARE SO COOL!**


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN: Super sorry about taking so long to update. I have no excuse. Please don't hate me! Here, take some more story! Thank you all for the amazing reviews! You have no idea how amazing it makes me feel!**_

0o0o0o

The Doctor looked carefully at the brunette woman in front of him. She bustled about, finishing the drug test, and the Doctor decided he liked her. She swept a stray strand of hair behind her ear and smirked awkwardly. She was the sort who always smiled, even, if it was the last thing she wanted to do. Why on Gallifrey would Sherlock hurt such a kind, sweet woman? It would be like kicking a kitten!

Then again, from what the Doctor knew about Sherlock, he was indifferent to beauty. "Do you have any family?" not-Sherlock asked Molly.

Glancing up, Molly looked uncertain. Sherlock never bothered to ask about her personal life before. "Uh, no. I used too, but my mum died a few years ago. Just me now."

"I'm sorry." The Doctor said sincerely.

Molly stared at the detective in mild shock. He'd only said sorry once before, that she could remember, and she didn't like to think about it. However, here was this alternate Sherlock, asking about her family like he actually cared. "Me too" she answered, " But it's better now. I've got Tom."

"Oh yes!" the Doctor said, "John told me you're engaged."

Molly nodded, a smirk flitting across her lips, "You've never been interested in my life before, Sherlock. What happened?"

The Doctor laughed, "Poor Sherlock. He must miss out on so much…"

Molly opened her mouth and then shut it again. Shaking her head, she straightened her lap coat and glanced at the test results. He was clean, just like he'd said. So why was he acting like this? "I'll be right back." Molly gestured at John, who was staring vacantly at the ceiling.

The Doctor nodded, guessing what conclusions were being drawn in the minds of Sherlock's friends. He ran his fingers along the table top, marveling at the detail Sherlock's fingers were trained to pick up. By far, Sherlock Holmes was more physically advanced than the average human. Smirking, the Doctor hopped up on the table and swung his legs back and forth. Molly glanced back at him, and then hurried onward to John.

"He's clean isn't he?" John sighed.

Molly blinked, "How'd you know?" she handed him the results. Reading it quickly, John set it on a table beside him.

"Just my luck," he replied, "My best friend is not only a sociopath, he also has a multiple personality disorder."

"Is that what you think it is?" Molly wanted to know.

John shrugged, watching his friend in the corner of his eye, "I'm no psychologist, but that's sure what it looks like." He bit his lip, "When I was going to see Ella Thomson for my leg thing, there was another client who had a multiple personality disorder." He shook his head, "Some days she would come in as Jamey, and other days as Maurice. They were different as night and day, like twin sisters can be, but the same person."

Molly mulled over this thought for a few minutes, "What are we going to do?" she asked.

"I-" John frowned, "I dunno, I can probably get Ella to meet with him later. She can figure it out for sure. I just can't believe he's managed to keep this whole part of him hidden from me for so long!"

Nodding, Molly clutched her clipboard to her chest. She was just as baffled. "Sherlock?" she called cautiously to the man across the room.

The Doctor looked up, a smile on his face. Hopping off the table, he was soon standing next to them. "Are you done diagnosing me yet?" he said, "Cause you really should know this room echoes amazingly! It's like being in the Sistine chapel." The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "I traveled there once, years ago. Mikey, I said, if you're scared of heights, then you shouldn't have taken the job." The Doctor laughed, and then realized he slipped up again. Poor Sherlock, he'd probably ruined any chance of his friends ever thinking him sane now.

"Jeeze," Molly said, brown eyes wide, "You really think you're him."

The not-Sherlock sighed, "I'm not going to bother telling you what's actually happened, because you won't believe me anyway. John doesn't, and I'm his best friend, well, Sherlock's best friend."

"Oh don't, Sher-" John started, but was interrupted by the loud banging of a door. Footsteps pounded painfully on the tile, and John cringed.

"_Sherlock Holmes_! Will you _please_ answer your phone?!" shouted a male voice.

John groaned, "Lestrade, now is _not_ the time." He ran a hand behind his neck and turned slightly away.

"Oh it better be!" answered the man, walking up to them. "Do you have any idea how many times I've texted you, Sherlock?"

"Ah, twenty-two?" the Doctor guessed at random.

Greg blinked, "How did you- oh never mind! Look. You. Forty-three Bartholomew Street. Now. A situation's arisen, and we need you there." he punctuated every few words with a pointing finger. The man was wearing police attire and had short graying hair. Not-Sherlock looked over him quickly. _So this is Lestrade. Interesting..._

"thought you'd be fatter." He remarked factually.

"What? What the heck is that suppose-"

"Seriously, Lestrade, he can't go now." John interrupted, "We don't even know if he still can do…" John trailed off, realizing Sherlock, his Sherlock, might not want the world to know about his... issue.

"Still can do what?" Lestrade demanded.

John's hand met the back of his neck, "You know… his thing."

Lestrade frowned confusedly, "Why wouldn't he?"

Now the Doctor turned to John, a mischievous grin on his face, "Yes, John. Why wouldn't I do my 'thing'?" he put finger quotes around the word 'thing' and giggled childishly.

Lestrade gave Sherlock an odd look, but let the uncharacteristic action go. "_Right_…" he frowned, already rushing off. "I've got to get back. Be there in fifteen minutes, Sherlock. Fifteen!"

"Les-" John started, but Greg gone. He groaned, "What the heck was that! You can't solve a case right now!"

Not-Sherlock grinned, "Why not? Can't be _that_ hard," he did a small hop skip.

Molly was watching this exchange with amusement, and suddenly had an idea. a satisfied smirk slunk across her features. "Prove it."

The Doctor frowned, confused, "Prove? prove what"

"Prove you still do deductions as this… other person."

Nodding, John thought about that for a moment before responding, "Yeah, good idea, Molly."

The Doctor bit his lip. So maybe he was a complete genius, but he wasn't _Sherlock Holmes _for Rassilon's sake! How on Gallifrey could he prove something he doubted he has the ability to do? "Fine." not-Sherlock said, with no other option. "What do you want me to do?"

Molly thought for a moment and then reached behind a desk. Pulling out a beanie, she handed it to him. "This was in the lost and found"

The Doctor frowned, snatching the beanie from her. This was not going to end well…

Molly nodded. "Who owns it?"

The Doctor stared at the beanie. At first he didn't expect anything to happen, but as he looked for details, he realized that the eyes of the man the Doctor was looking through were attuned to this activity. Feeling information pore through his eyes and into his mouth, the Doctor gasped. It was like muscle memory… sort of. Sherlock's consciousness may be absent, but his body was a well attuned machine! Combine the Doctor's intellect and Sherlock's quick fingers, and bam! You've got a detective! "The hat belongs to a middle aged man," The Doctor said slowly, turning it over in his hands. The information began speeding up. "Graying hair that was originally brown; it's been recently cut. He spends a ridiculous amount of time looking after his appearances... and used to work here."

"How could you possibly know th-"

"Quiet!" John insisted.

The Doctor didn't seem to hear them, "He was fired a few weeks ago after neglecting his duties. The man is very intelligent. Most likely a doctor or a scientist of some sort, logical to assume he used to work here. He loved this hat, washed it three-no- four times. Who washes a hat? Only someone who cares about keeping it clean, and since hats don't usually get dirty, this man was obsessive, washing every last speck. However he hadn't cleaned it for several weeks, probably due to the fact that whoever gave it to him, betrayed his trust somehow. Girlfriend? Wife? Probably a wife, going by his age. It's a logical assumption that if he's neglecting this hat, which he adores, then he's also neglecting other areas of his life leading to the fact that he left the hat behind when he was fired because he no longer cared for-"

"Okay!" John said, stopping the torrent of deductions exploding from the Doctor's mouth.

The Doctor stopped short, surprise lighting his eyes. _I just did that. By looking at it._ The Doctor shook his head in shock. _Amazing_! "See?" he said smugly, "I can do my 'thing' just fine."

"I agree, John." said Molly, "He seems fine in that area, especially since he's just described Dr Benet."

"Doctor who?"

"Benet. He used to work here, but he found out his wife was cheating on him, and everything went downhill from there."

John furrowed his brows, not at all liking this situation. What would Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, do in this situation? John didn't know. "Fine!" he gave in after a moment, "Go!" he threw his hands in the air and turned away, "Try not to make a fool of yourself, if at all possible- which it's not. I don't even know why I ask you."

The Doctor grinned like a child on Christmas morning. "Ha- _ha_! Good!" he spun toward the door, his coat splaying out behind him, "Goodbye, Molly! have fun doing sciencey stuff! Come along, Pon- I mean, John!"

John shook his head, whispering to Molly, "This is not going to work out well… He's acting like a lunatic!"

Molly laughed, "Go on, I've got sciencey stuff to do. Besides I think he's much nicer this way. Still a bit weird, but not as stand-offish, you know?" she turned to look at Sherlock, who was attempting to open the door by pulling instead of pushing. "What could go wrong?"

Shaking his head, John stared to follow his overly excited friend, "Yes, but it's not him, Molly. He's not _Sherlock_."

Molly nodded slightly sad, "But what if it is, John?"

John frowned, "What?"

"You said he might have a split personality, what if _this_ is the original, the way Sherlock is supposed to be." Molly glanced at John, who shot daggers at her.

"No." John said, "He's not Sherlock, and he never will be. I'm going to call Mycroft and have him meet us at the crime scene. He should know what to do."

Molly frowned, biting her lip as John stalked away, "John?" she called softly.

John turned, pausing. "Yeah?"

"Don't let your opinion of your friend get in the way of reality, okay?"

John opened his mouth to give back a sharp retort, but was interrupted.

"John!" the Doctor shouted impatiently,

"I'm coming, you idiot!"

"The police guy, _Lestrade_ said fifteen minutes, and it's been seven minutes, thirty two seconds already!" the Doctor shouted, finally managing to push the door. 'What sort of door opens outward!" he shouted indignatly.

John glanced at his watch and realized Sherlock was exactly right. How could he possibly known the exact time? Shaking away the odd thought, John hurried after the tails of a dark coat.

* * *

_**AN: Yeah... so tell me what you think so far. I'd love to hear your thoughts, comments, questions... the occasional joke. I don't know. Anyway, thanks for reading!**_


	8. Chapter 8

0o0o0o

"That was _not_ what I had in mind when I said something brilliant." Amy whispered through her teeth.

"Well what did you want me to do?!" Sherlock retorted; his hands shackled behind his back with a laser beam of some sort.

"Not that!"

"It was a perfectly logical acti-"

"No," Amy interrupted, blowing a hair from her face. "That was not in the same _universe_ as logical_,"_

The not-Doctor rolled his eyes.

"Hey look!" Amy mocked under her breath, "There's a clearly hostile alien life form. Let's run up and try to pry its bloody head off!"

"It could have been a mask of some sort, Amy. I had to be sure."

"Well I bet you're satisfied now."

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again, "Yes, quite satisfied. Not a mask."

A garbled voice interjected into their conversation, followed by a quick jab in the ribs by the alien's gun. Amy huffed, turning slightly backwards. "I will talk if I want to, alien boy."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "You can understand it?" he whispered.

"Obviously," Amy whispered back, "The TARDIS gets in your mind and translates foreign languages."

"It's not working on me…" Sherlock frowned.

Shrugging, Amy opened her mouth to reply, "Sometimes it takes a while. She can be unpredictable at times…"

"Sorry, who?"

"The TARDIS." Amy gave a fleeting smirk, "The Doctor says she's alive, like has a consciousness and stuff!" her expression faltered for a moment, "But the Doctor is the only one who really knows how to communicate with her, and even his communication is shaky at best."

Sherlock snorted, gaining an unfriendly glance from the aliens. "So let me get this straight, you've got a machine with a will of her own who you can't communicate with efficiently. You travel inside of this…"

"TARDIS." Amy supplied.

"Yeah, TARDIS. You go to foreign planets and times with an alien man who won't tell you his name, and I'm somehow currently occupying his body?"

"Now you're getting it!" Amy beamed.

Their conversation was interrupted as the troop of aliens came to a halt. For the last ten minutes or so, they'd been walking along sparse grassland that vaguely reminded Sherlock of an African plain. Usually, with the suns above them beating down so ferociously, sweat would have been trickling down the detective's neck, but this 'Doctor' appeared to have a more energy at his disposal than Sherlock expected.

"What's going on?" He murmured to Amy, who shrugged in response.

The aliens were conferring with each other, glancing occasionally at their prisoners. Their abnormally long, warped neck twisted as they spoke, skin of the men's necks vilely fading into a dogs'. Appearing to communicate to someone through a radio of some sort, they spoke in hushed tones. After a moment, the group nodded in unison. One of the Jackal-heads stepped forward, extended a hand, and spoke directly the Sherlock. Gapping, the not-Doctor glanced at Amy for help.

"He's asking if we have, um… tags?"

"What? No. What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock replied.

Amy shrugged.

The alien didn't seem to like the answer. He shook his long nose at them accusingly.

Amy frowned, "He says they are called the Affligere. We are not to resist. Because we are without tags, we are being taken to the Games. It's a great honor, or something." Amy translated, biting a red lip.

Sherlock's mind instantly kicked into gear.

'_Affligere'_

_Language- Latin. _

_Rough translation- Inflictor of pain._

_Great._

The alien's voice sounded like a radio stuck between two stations. All Sherlock could make out were a few syllables and a bunch of static. He nodded, "I don't suppose we have much of a choice, do we..."

The alien nodded.

_Curious…_ Sherlock thought, _it can understand me, yet I cannot understand it…_

Reaching forward, the alien grabbed their wrists, undid their handcuffs, and propelled them toward the rest of the Affligere. The alien smelled like grass and freshly turned dirt, not at all what Sherlock would expect from _inflictors of pain. _As they grew closer, Sherlock saw what the Affligere were all clustered around. It was a cleverly disguised hatch leading into the ground.

One of the Jackals gave what might be interpreted as a snicker, and before Sherlock could protest, thrust the intruders into the hole.

They fell for several seconds before landing in a pile of dirty grass. Amy shrieked tumbling head over heels down the mini-mountain, and Sherlock followed suit, landing on top of her.

They lay gasping for a moment, and then Amy groaned. "Doctor, you are crushing my lungs."

Sherlock jerked away from her, realizing the awkward position he'd landed in. "I- sorry. Didn't mean to-"

"Oh shut up, alien boy." Amy said, slugging his arm causally. The way she acted, one would think she got thrown into alien prisons everyday… Then again, she probably did.

Sherlock nodded and moved to the side. He collapsed onto the hay and stared upwards. Catching their breath, Sherlock watched the hatch slam shut above them. For the first time since he'd woken up, everything seemed to slow down. This was real, like _really_ real. He took a deep breath, cringing at the smell of urine, and body odor mixed with the scent of the wilting grass beneath them. This was most definitely a cell of some sort, which was not good… very not good. He glanced upward again, taking comfort in the slight outline of light coming through the edges of the hatch. It was at least twenty feet from the floor. The pile of grass rose about halfway up the room, and they now lay at the bottom of the hill. To the left was a small lamp burning without heat.

Amy hopped to her feet and brushed herself off. She was wearing a short skirt with black leggings that were now covered in bits of grass. With straw sticking every which way, the brush off was not very successful. Sherlock stared at her for a moment, appreciating the fact that she didn't seem to care.

_She's the sort who's beautiful without even trying. Beautiful with straw in her hair- _Sherlock halted his thoughts suddenly, shocked. _Beauty is a combination of hormones and chemicals, and symmetry. Nothing more._ He shook his head, violently blushing. _Stop it Sherlock. You are not some teenage boy… _he scolded himself.

Luckily, Amy was busy inspecting the room and didn't notice Sherlock's expression. He never let himself succumb to such thoughts… Shaking his head, Sherlock jumped up and glanced around. The tweed jacket he was wearing tore when the Affligere threw them into this holding cell, and Sherlock discarded it. Raising an eyebrow, Amy glanced at the jacket and back at the not-Doctor. The Doctor would freak out if he knew what Sherlock had just done. Shaking her head, Amy banished the thought. She'd deal with that once the Doctor was back… when he came back.

When. Not if. Amy refused to think about the other possibility, that somehow Sherlock Holmes would be stuck in her best friend's body forever. A spike of fear light her eyes, but she quickly hid it. They were going to fix this. The Doctor would be back… he always worked it out. Glancing around quickly, she located the door.

"Amy?" Sherlock frowned, walking up to her. He hadn't missed the fear in her eyes, quickly hidden. "What's wrong?" _Ridiculous question… what's _not_ wrong?_

Amy realized she'd been staring into space for several seconds. Forcing a smile, she turned toward the exit. "Um- no. Nothing. It's just- I, never mind."

Blinking, Sherlock shrugged. "I see you've found the door."

"Yeah," Amy ran a hand through her hair as they turned their attention to the metal fixture. Stepping forward, she tried to push it open. There wasn't a handle or knob of any sort. "It's locked." She concluded after a moment.

"Obviously," Sherlock murmured. _Oh, that was rude… I really am rude._

Amy didn't seem to notice. Suddenly, the red-head's eyes lit up, and she raced toward the discarded jacket.

"Amy, what're-?"

"Ah- _ha_!" the ginger grinned triumphantly. She held up an object. "Found it!"

Jogging back to Sherlock, she placed the object in his hand. The look on her face said she'd just given him something priceless.

He glanced at the object, his hope deflating. "It's a stick."

Amy huffed, snatching it back. "See? You press this button." She pressed a button on the middle of the metal stick. The end light up and extended, buzzing annoyingly.

"Right, sorry. It's a stick that makes noise. My _apologies._" Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"It's a _sonic_ _screwdriver_!" Amy argued, annoyed.

"How exactly is it a screwdriver? It looks nothing whatsoever like a-"

"Oh good grief!" Amy groaned in exasperation, "You may be Sherlock Holmes, but you really are an idiot." Sherlock tried to reply, but was hushed. Amy handed the _screwdriver_ to him and pointed his arm and the screwdriver at the door, "You press this button and think about the door unlocking!"

"_Think_ about it?!" Sherlock answered.

"Yes, think about it! That's what the Doctor does." She paused, "Well, that's what I think he does. It must be, since there's the only one button and the sonic does all sorts of stuff."

_Right… not only is the ship alive, this screwdriver thing is controlled telepathically…_

"Sherlock, come on! We don't know when they'll come back!" she urged.

"Ok! Ok! What do I do?"

"I just told you!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I know. How do I do _that_?"

Amy opened her mouth and closed it again. "I don't know! You just do it!"

"That is about the worst set of instructions I've ever received."

"Just do it!" Amy stepped back and rolled her eyes. "This would be _so_ much easier if you were actually the Doctor."

Sherlock frowned, "Fine!" he pointed the sonic at the door and closed his eyes tightly. Imagining the door opening, he heard the buzzing change pitch several times. Suddenly, an electronic voice sounded from within his thoughts.

_Error- Deadlock!_

Shouting in surprise, Sherlock dropped the screwdriver and thrust his hands over his ears.

"Oi! Careful!" Amy spoke, picking up the sonic from the stone floor.

"What the _heck_ was that!" he shouted, staring at Amy for an explanation.

Amy blinked, the stick hanging from her fingers. "You actually hear something? Like, in your mind? How cool is that!"

"Not cool! Not cool at all!" Sherlock protested.

Amy ignored him, "What did it say? Why won't the door open?"

"Something about a deadlock? What's that mean anyway?"

Sherlock could see her face deflate and he felt angry for disappointing her.

Amy slowly slid down the wall. "It means it we can't get out." She murmured.

Sherlock bit his lip. He'd failed her, this pretty, brave woman needed him to do something, and he failed her. Quickly, Sherlock crossed out the thought and deleted it. He didn't have time for such emotions like regret or jealousy.

"What now?" Amy asked, glancing at him. She was used to the Doctor always having the answers, her faith in him was irrevocable. But what could she do now? This wasn't the Doctor…

Sherlock thought for a moment. _Two options…_

_One- escape… somehow._

_Two- give up and wait for the Inflictors of Pain to take us to the 'Games'_

_Right._

"We escape some other way." Sherlock concluded, twirling in a circle. "What are our options, Amy? What have we got?" he stood her up, Happy to see the gleam in her eyes return.

"Um-"

"A hatch on the ceiling!" Sherlock pointed at it, "Not very helpful since the walls are metal sheets. No way to climb up the walls, and the hay pile is too unstable…what else?" he raced around the hay pile, "A lamp- metal. A door- locked. No way of escape obvious… but I'm missing something!" he grabbed his head, pacing.

Amy smirked. So this was Sherlock Holmes then… Sure the Doctor was eccentric, but there was certain intensity in this man that contrasted from the child-like Doctor with the same passion as night and day.

Sherlock was on full detective mode now. He needed a way out, and he was going to find one. Something was bugging him… something so apparent he wasn't seeing it.

"Sher-" Amy tried.

"Shut up! Thinking! Shut up! Don't move!" _Rude again- I can't think about that now! _"Actually," he said after a moment, "Would you mind walking over there?" he pointed behind the haystack. "You're…distracting…" Sherlock realized how that sounded after it left his mouth.

Snorting in laughter, Amy rolled her eyes and skipped around the corner, "Whatever..." He'd figure it out; he was Sherlock Holmes for star's sake.

"Not like-"

"Uh-huh…" Amy murmured, a snicker in her voice.

Sherlock huffed and turned away. He needed to concentrate; he _really_ needed to concentrate! But every time Sherlock formed his mind palace, Amy's face appeared like an afterimage and seemed to deliberately shatter his focus. There was something he was missing… some reason he couldn't stop thinking about the female, but for the life of him, Sherlock didn't know what!

_Stop it! Focus! _Like a static filled radio, Mycroft's voice broke through his jumbled thoughts.

_I can't!_

_Forget her! Delete the distraction! Get it together!_

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock deleted Mycroft instead and replaced the voice with John's.

His best, and only friend's voice washed over him like warm water, _Calm down, Sherlock. What's wrong?_

_Amy._

_Why? Why is she wrong?_

_I CAN'T CONCENTRATE!_

_Then don't. Think about Amy. Tell me about her. Solve the problem._

_She's tall. Long legs, nice smile. Impulsive and adventurous. Strands of her long red hair lift up in the slight-_

Sherlock is jerked from his palace with a gasp. That it's! It was staring him in the face and he didn't see! His subconscious put the pieces together, and gave him exactly what he needed without him even knowing!

"AMY!" Sherlock shouted, racing around the mountain of grass. "I've got it! I've got it!"

Turning toward him, Amy unwound her arms from her ribcage and grinned. "I knew you would! What do we do?"

"It's your hair!" Sherlock laughed delightedly.

Amy frowned, "Um… unless you're thinking about pulling a Rapunzal act, which will not work, then-"

"No!" Sherlock gestured in frustration, "not _actually_ your hair, it's what it's doing!"

Amy blinked. "What?"

As Amy stood still, stray strands of fire drifted off her cheek and waved gently in the, "Breeze." Sherlock breathed, "There are no windows, and the door is deadlocked,"

"So how is there a breeze?" Amy finished, a smile growing on her face. Now she was getting it. _Good grief he's clever._

Sherlock felt the familiar rush of adrenalin he _lived_ for. He was an addict, dying for the next fix of mystery and adventure. "A breeze, a breeze, Amy. Do you know what that means?" The detective didn't wait for her to respond; he was already across the room inspecting the metal panels. "It means." He tapped different parts of the wall, pressing his ear against it, "a way," His fingers dug under a panel, "out."

He tugged at the panel again, grinning in triumph when it gave beneath his fingers. Rushing forward, Amy helped him lay the four-by-three foot sheet of metal on the stone floor. She laughed joyfully, her Scottish accent thickening in her excitement. "A tunnel!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock nodded, "A vent, actually, cleverly disguised as a part of the wall. Logical I suppose… Without a vent of some sort to refresh the air, the prisoners would suffocate." He bent to examine the metal sheet. Smiling grimly, he ran his fingers across the surface, "This entire sheet is riddled with tiny holes impossible to see in this rotten light, very clever…" he frowned, "Almost _too_ clever, perhaps the Affligere are more advanced than I expected…"

Amy rolled her eyes, "Yeah whatever, let's go. They could be back any minute."

Sherlock nodded abstractly, "I'll get the lamp." He murmured.

Amy got onto her knees and crawled into the dark metal tunnel, or vent, as Sherlock said. She giggled, "I feel like a spy or something! In the movies they always sneak around in the air vents!"

Sherlock got to his feet, "Well in real life they don't. It would be entirely illogical. Air vents are usually much smaller."

"How would you know what spies do?" Amy jokingly accused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, walking across the room, "My brother." He said simply.

Amy frowned, trying to recall facts about the mysterious fiction she read as a kid. "Mike, right?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock corrected.

"Oh, yeah, Mycroft. He's works for the British government, or something?"

The not-Doctor snorted, "He _is_ the British government."

Amy was about to reply when they suddenly heart footsteps and a jabbering of voices. Amy gasped, "Sherlock! Come on!"

"GO!" came the reply. "I'm coming."

Amy didn't waste any time, but after a moment she turned. Sherlock wasn't there. "_Sherlock_!" she repeated hoarsely, "Let's go!"

There was no answer.

Amy bit her lip. She should wait; she should make sure he made it into the vent before going forward, but the voices sounded closer.

"Go!" she heard him urge once more. Sherlock would be fine. Taking care of himself is what he did best… sort of. He'd just be a few seconds behind her. The door banged open and Amy hid a shriek with her hand. She needed to get out of here; she needed to go _now_! Fear override her hesitation, and she fled, scrambling down the vent to destinations unknown.

Clutching the lamp in his hand, Sherlock ducked behind the pile of hay. Crap. He needed to get out of here! The Detective scrambled forward as the door unlocked and in walked three of the Affligere. A few more feet and he'd be out of their captor's reach. _Almost there!_ They were too tall to fit into the vent, each one towering at nine feet or more. He heard a cry as they realized their captives were escaping. His speed increasing, Sherlock threw himself into the vent Slamming painfully onto metal flooring, the glass part of the lamp shattered under his hand. With a shout of surprise and pain, Sherlock paused for a moment too long; long enough for a long claw to encase his ankle. The Affligere yanked him from the hole with remarkable strength.

He struggled against them, kicking and punching, but despite his attempts, the not-Doctor was overwhelmed fairly quickly. The last thing Sherlock saw was the sneering faces of the Affligere as a fist came crashing down into his face. The world switched off like a light switch and a small spark flit through the air.

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**AN: Sorry about the delay, everyone. I was unable to get to a computer for a few days. Anyway, here's some more story! Oh! and I've got a question for you guys, just for fun. If you describe The Doctor, Sherlock, Amy Pond, John Watson etc. with ONE word, what word would that be?**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Sorry I don't post as often as I used to, but there were stuff and shenanigans... Shenanigans, lovely word... _Anyway_, In this chapter we _finally_ get to see a crime scene. (I've been waiting for this chapter _forever!_) anyway, if you think you know what's happening, (and I think I've made it obvious, it will become even clearer in the next chapter) PLEASE DON"T POST IT IN THE COMMENTS;) I really don't want people blabbing out what's gonna happen before it happens. I would be overjoyed if you PM me what you think is going to happen, but don't count on an straightforward answer. As River Song says _spoilers_.**

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The Doctor stared out the taxi window, silent for once. Now that he had time to stop and think, the entirety of his situation came crashing onto him. How was he ever going to get back?! What happened to Amy? Was she alright? All alone after such a crash! Images of the ginger calling his name in vain filled his vision, and he shook them away. She was a strong girl, but he knew she'd be terrified after being stranded on an unknown planet all by herself.

Guilt oozed through his heart (he only had one now) as he thought about Amy being scared. He abandoned her too many times already. Of course, none of those times were on purpose, this time included, but the Doctor had a way of feeling guilty for everything, even events that weren't directly his fault. Good grief, was she even alive? What if something happened in the crash and he wasn't there to save her?!

His breath sped up and the Doctor gripped his knee until his knuckles turned white. He didn't notice John's look of concern as Sherlock's friend spoke to Mycroft on the phone. Closing his eyes tightly, the Doctor slowly calmed himself. Thoughts like that weren't going to help anything. He needed a plan, and he needed an ally. Flicking his eyes to rest of John, he contemplated an idea. There was _no_ _way_ John was going to believe the Doctor was telling the truth, since apparently he was a fictional character in this universe.

Why did everything have to be so… _complicated_? There was one way he could convince John of his identity, but it was a shaky way of communication, and the Doctor wasn't sure he could do it in this body. Filing the thought away for a more pressing time, the Doctor let out a sigh. He missed the TARDIS, and he missed his companions- well, just _companion_ now, now that Rory had been erased from existence. Another prick of guilt stabbed him and the Doctor sighed.

He didn't realized they'd arrived until John nudged him. Shaking away his rainy thoughts, the Doctor stumbled from the cab into the wet evening. He would get back to fixing this mess, but right now, he had a mystery to solve.

A shiver of excitement slipped through the Doctor and he smirked. It wasn't every day one got to be Sherlock Holmes.

John's foot splashed in a puddle and The Doctor's eyes zeroed in on each droplet as it fell on the cuff of his jeans. _Fascinating_! John put his phone away after dialing his wife to tell her where he was. The sky above them was the color of mud and ink. Any minute now it would start to rain and erase any information the outside of the crime scene had to offer. The Doctor chuckled, marveling at the detail Sherlock's eyes could pick up and store away. Once he realized how to utilize the detective's abilities, it came easily. He had his surrounding memorized in five seconds flat.

About ten feet from the road stood an old house badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. Clinging to the walls like a worried lover, ivy crawled up the paneling without reproach. It was a rather tragic looking location. Flowers on the windowsill of the house where the gruesome dead was done, were as dead as the corpse the Doctor assumed was within. Several windows were broken, victims of bored adolescents, and the lawn was ill kept. In all respects, the house looked abandoned, the perfect place for a crime. There were several sets of footsteps on the front lawn of the house, but those were most likely made by the police, who were going in and out. However, there was one set that didn't quite match. The Doctor frowned and bent down to inspect it. What was that? A child? The size suggested an infant. _What?_

What was a _baby_ doing here, of all places? And walking around? The Doctor stored away the information and moved forward. Skipping under a strip of police tape, the Doctor made his way to a clump of official looking people.

John trailed behind his friend, watching him devour information, and wondering what he saw. He was pleased not to see the maniacal look of pleasure in Sherlock's eyes his friend usually had when he was on a case. It was unfitting, John thought, someone _had_ died. There was excitement and curiosity, but not pleasure. This 'new' Sherlock seemed to respect that a human being was no longer breathing. In retrospect, this new Sherlock also thought he was a time traveling alien from a television show, but John had hopes he would drop that.

Not-Sherlock skipped up the steps and stood of the balls of his feet, his dark coat swirling loosely in the slight wind. Looking back, the Doctor saw John had followed him. Good, he could tell him which people Sherlock knew.

A dark skinned woman with curly black hair exited the building, slamming the scream door. The look she gave him that could have fried a cat. "Freak's here!" she shouted back inside the dimly light house.

The Doctor frowned, "Who's that?" He whispered to John.

John sighed, "Sally Donovan, she sort of hates you."

"I gathered." The Doctor glanced at the man who he was quickly beginning to like. "And the freak?"

John snorted, "That'd be you, mate."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"Good grief. How bad is he?" muttered the Doctor, peering through the door.

Another look of sadness prevailed over John's face. He was doing it again, referring to himself in third person. "Ah- yeah, well, some people think- but you're not really, well, sometimes…" John trailed off.

An eyebrow rose and for a moment John thought Sherlock would be offended, but then a grin cracked his features and he laughed, "That was about a vague as you can get." He chuckled.

John smiled, "Sorry."

The Doctor just nodded, entering the house. There was a small dining room to the left, and a kitchen to the right. Straight ahead was an unstable looking staircase. All the furniture was covered in white sheets, along with several Greek-styled statues and some paintings. Everything was coated with cobwebs and dust.

The Doctor turned his attention away, spotting Lestrade giving instructions to several policemen and women in the dining room. The police chief waved them away when he saw the detective.

"Sherlock!" he said, "Good, you're here. There's something you should see."

"Cool!" the Doctor replied excitedly, inducing a nudge from John. The Doctor glanced at John in confusion and then back at Lestrade, who was giving him an odd look, "Erm- I mean, um, show me."

Lestrade nodded slowly, "_Okaaaay_, right. So you'll want to hear the details…" Lestrade began climbing the stairs.

"Sur- uh- obviously." Oh how the Doctor wished he'd paid more attention on how Sherlock reacted when he read the books!

They reached the second floor and Lestrade switched on his flashlight. "A few days ago Michael Maroon went missing."

"How old?" the doctor questioned remembering the small foot prints,

Lestrade paused, turning for a moment, "Seventeen or eighteen by the look of him." He estimated.

The Doctor nodded. "Michael Maroon, nice name, sort of rolls off the tongue." He repeated the name to himself a few more times. The odd footprints couldn't belong to the boy, then. He was too old.

"Anyway," Lestrade continued, "Him and some friends were playing Frisbee across the street and it-"

The Doctor paused, catching a glimpse of something blue. He tugged at it. "Flew through the window?" he guessed, picking up a blue Frisbee that had wedged itself behind another Greek statue and the wall. Across the hall was a shattered window.

Lestrade glanced around, looking annoyed. "Would you _not_!" he grumbled, snatching the Frisbee away. "This is _evidence_!"

"It's a _Frisbee_!" the Doctor protested, "I _found_ it!" he sounded like a child claiming finders-keepers on the playground.

Lestrade ignored him, instead handing the Frisbee to a passing police officer. "Come on." He said, "_I'm_ telling the story."

John watched the banter in silent amusement. Sherlock _never_ had conversations like this!

"So the boy came to look for his Frisbee. He shouted out the window that he couldn't find it-"

"Didn't look very hard," the Doctor remarked, "It was in plain sight."

"Yeah, to _you_." John interjected.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, bringing them both to a stop, "Would you _please_ let me finish!"

The Doctor mimed zipping his lips, "At your _pleasure_, Lestrade." He grinned.

Lestrade gave John a look that said something along the lines of, '_you are going to tell me what's going on with him after this is done'_. John replied with a '_you have no idea what I've been dealing with today_' expression. Sighing, Lestrade paused, "The boy disappeared from the window. Witnesses say it looked like he was yanked back." Lestrade was grim now. "The other kids were obviously concerned, followed him into the house and found..." He led them around a corner to a closed door at the end of the hall, "This…" he finished. "Kids freaked out, ran away, called the police."

John bit his lip, "Then where's the boy?"

The Doctor nodded in agreement, his stomach flipping with distaste. He never enjoyed sights like this. Leaning in a corner between the wall and the door, was the corpse of a ridiculously old man. The Doctor quickly came forward and inspected him, an air of sadness in his eyes. "Old age." He murmured, and then shook his head, adding after a moment, "Who calls _Sherlock Holmes_ to investigate death by old age?" Solemnly, the alien closed the old man's eyes and stepped away.

Lestrade sighed, gesturing helplessly at the corpse, "Because _he_," the Inspector pointed at the body, "Is Michael Maroon."

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AN: Reminder, DO NOT POST IN THE COMMENTS WHAT YOU THINK IS GOING TO HAPPEN! PM me instead;)


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: I know I usually switch off universes each chapter, but I need this chapter so we can catch up to the Doctor Who world. Sorry about that. Enjoy!**

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0o0o0o

"How's that possible?" John questioned, scratching his head.

Lestrade just shrugged, "they're going to do some more DNA tests once we get him to a lab, but in all appearances it's him, just a heck of a lot older." Handing the Doctor a photograph, Lestrade stepped toward the body. In the photo was a picture of a teenage boy, and in the next was a computer generated guess of what he would look like as an old man. The Doctor held the photo up and compared it to the body. It was a perfect representation.

Nodding, the Doctor stepped forward.

"And no one's seen the boy?" John murmured.

"Aren't you listening?" the Doctor said, "That is the boy, right there. Lived to death."

John did a double take, "But Sherlock, the boy was a _teenager_. It doesn't make sense." He scratched his head, "maybe it's just a relative of his or something…"

The Doctor snorted, "What are the chances of that?" he walked up to John until he was nearly on top of him. John had to bend upward to look his friend in the eye. "Just because something doesn't make sense, does not mean it's not possible." He continued, tapping John on the nose with a sly grin.

Watson frowned, realizing his friend was referring to more than the crime scene. He took a step back, at the same time wondering if Sherlock had forgotten about certain social rules like personal space.

Taking a deep breath, The Doctor spun away, renewing the atmosphere with a nearly tangible energy. "Well then!" he smirked grimly. "So he looks like the boy, but that can be explained in some way or another. What other proof we have?" he crouched down without reserve to inspect the body once more.

Several police officers stood around the fringes of the room. They stepped forward along with the Doctor, but he waved them away.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "What have you got?" he asked after approximately three seconds.

The Doctor frowned upward at the inspector, "Just give me a tick."

John nodded in agreement and both of them stepped away. At this point, Sherlock would be grinning. The Doctor, on the other hand, appeared intruded, but not joyful. He'd seen enough violence during the Time War, and although he enjoyed the fun of a mystery, he never liked the sight of a body. This was a mild crime scene, The Doctor knew, and there were far worse things than the body of a man who died of old age. But how did Sherlock deal with the more bloody deaths he investigated, day after day? His mind must be filled to the brim with violence. _Then again_, the Doctor thought, _so is mine._

In the scheme of things, both Sherlock and the Doctor were running, distracting themselves from who they really were. As long as they didn't think about it, they could forget their past crimes, if only for a moment. The Doctor chose companions with hearts filled with overwhelming goodness to balance out his evil; Sherlock investigated and engulfed himself in the crimes of evil men to stop himself from falling into their footsteps. Both of them made rules to keep from overstepping their boundaries. They desperately clung to the light, because if they loosened their grip, even for a moment, and it would be _so easy_, they would drown in the night within their souls.

The Doctor worked silently, as if not to wake the corpse. He let Sherlock's eyes do their work, and quickly discovered bits of information he thought was probably unimportant, but stored away anyway.

_Is that a coffee stain on his jacket?_

_No you idiot, its applesauce._

_Applesauce?! That's like yogurt and apples all at once! Who eats applesauce on purpose?_

_Grown ups._

_And there's another reason why I'm never growing up._

The Doctor swept away his inner argument in an attempt to concentrate. Reaching forward, he put a hand into the man's pockets with a silent apology. They were empty all except for the last one, which held a soiled handkerchief. The Doctor sniffed it and then threw it behind him in dismissal. It smelled like cough syrup.

Someone grumbled at this action, but the Doctor didn't take the time to figure out who it was, because something caught his eye. "Ah- _ha_." He smiled. There was a small bit stitching on the inside of the man's tweed jacket, (He noted the _tweed_ part with satisfaction) cleverly hidden to the passing glance, but not standing a chance to the Doctor's. He reached into the pocket of Sherlock's coat and felt a collapsible magnifying glass, an IPhone, a notebook, and a small pocketknife. Withdrawing the pocketknife, the Doctor picked the stitching loose. After a moment, he was gratified to see a hidden pocket open up.

John knelt down beside his friend, watching with interest. The Doctor let him hover, reaching in and pulling out a worn leather wallet.

"What's that?" John asked.

The Doctor shrugged, opening it up. "We're about to find out," he murmured. With a small tug, The Doctor withdrew several coins and some paper money. Next he pulled out what looked like a much worn school ID. A small chuckle escaped him and the Doctor inspected the money and the ID. "They all look fifty years old, at least." He supplied. "More proof."

Lestrade frowned, "How is that proof?"

John picked up a piece of the paper money, his eyes going wide. "But that's not possible!" he gapped.

"You really need to expand you vocabulary, John." The Doctor murmured.

"What is it?" Lestrade begged, leaning in.

The Doctor glanced up. "All this money shows the wear and tear of a lifetime, and yet, a look at the date it says they were printed in…" The alien handed Lestrade the money.

"2014." The Lestrade stated, blinking, "how can it-"

"And look at this," the Doctor grinned, waving the school ID. On the front was a picture of Michal Maroon in his sophomore year- _whatever sophomore mean_s. "This card is a lifetime old, look how faded it is, but if I'm right, then it was printed this year." He pointed at the date printed on the side.

John gapped, about to again state how impossible that was, but he stopped himself. "There must be a mistake." He said instead, "Maybe we're looking at this wrong."

Lestrade nodded, "Someone must be deliberately doing this to throw us off or something."

"What's there to throw you off of?" Asked the Doctor, "He died of old age. It wasn't murder."

John nodded, "Good point. But how can this be Michal Maroon? How can this old man be him, and what's he doing with freshly printed money that looks years and years old? It's not like he's a _time_ trav-" he stopped, remembering Sherlock's position. Perhaps he should not mention time travelers…

But it was too late. The Doctor nodded, "It almost seems that way, doesn't it? But I don't think that's possible… here." He was about to say 'this universe' but caught him self just in time. The Doctor could act human when the mood hit him, and he didn't want to hurt Sherlock's reputation anymore that he already had. Time travel was possible everywhere, but Sherlock's friends didn't know that.

Lestrade chuckled, "We'll figure it out, do some testing, see if the money is real, do some more testing and find out its age." He gathered up the wallet and its items, depositing them in a plastic evidence bag. "Until then, I suggest you boys go home." He addressed not-Sherlock; "I'll text you tomorrow when everything's gotten to the lab."

The Doctor nodded, swiveling away from the body. "Right-o" he smirked.

John rolled his eyes. Quickly, the two men walked through the hall, down the stairs, and into the living room. Several police officers stood around an old dining table chatting amiably. The room hushed the moment not-Sherlock walked in, a distinctive sign that they were talking about him. The Doctor smirked; he didn't care if they gossiped about Sherlock, he wasn't him, and he doubted Sherlock cared either.

John and the Doctor kept walking with the intention to go outside. However, a single glance at the sheets of knifelike rain quickly vetoed the idea. Instead the umbrella gently pried itself from John's fingers and thudded against the door. "I told Mycroft to meet us here. He'll be here in a few minutes." John spoke, his voice stirring the Doctor.

The Doctor nodded, wondering what Sherlock's brother was like. They stood in comfortable silence for several seconds, and the Doctor withdrew an IPhone from his left-hand pocket. Murmuring voices, whisperings of reluctant wind resumed in the adjoining room. The Doctor did his best to ignore it. It wasn't often the time traveler had to wait, and it made him jittery. Biting a fingernail, he pressed a button on the device randomly. It took only a moment to guess the passcode_. Not very challenging_, the Doctor thought, _for a detective. _The passcode was 221B.

John glanced at his friend and then at Lestrade. Sherlock appeared slightly impatient, but otherwise occupied by his IPhone. Good, he could leave him for a moment. Shifting a boot forward, John proceeded toward Lestrade's gesturing hand. Feeling a sharp gaze slide like a ripped seam across his retreating back, John turned for a moment, expecting Sherlock's eyes to meet his own; however, Sherlock's gaze hadn't moved from the screen. Slightly disturbed, John felt his eyes drawn to a statue resting in the living room behind not-Sherlock. It was the stone replica of a cherub; his lips puckered like a dog's bottom as he blew out a dandelion. The detail was remarkable, amazing even, but for a reason unknown to John, an oily slug of dread slithered down his back and into his shoes. _It was almost like the statue is- _

"John!" Lestrade's voice cut into his thought and broke it into two before it was fully formed.

Shaking off the feeling, John raised his eyebrows and shuffled the rest of the way to the Inspector's side.

Another similarity between Sherlock and the Doctor: they both get bored. Often. And when they got bored, the desire to do _something_ consumed them to the point that they could think of nothing else until they fulfilled the desire. At this moment, the Doctor felt a familiar itch right between his ribs. He rolled his eyes, tapping his fingers absently. Good grief, he needed to _move_, speak, _something_. He couldn't stand another moment of this stillness! The itch grew, moving into his stomach and up his throat.

Now. He needed to do something _now_. Glancing around for possible items of entertainment, he wondered what Lestrade did with the Frisbee… A game of Frisbee _indoors_, what could be better? The Doctor was on the verge of asking for the item when his attention was claimed by a brown bob and freckled cheeks. People were even better than Frisbee! Coming toward him, the woman looked extremely nervous, biting her lip and hopping from foot to foot unconsciously. As she walked, she dropped her purse and spilled its contents on the floor. Quickly, she snatched it all up. Sherlock's reputation as an intelligent, but arrogant, rather frightening, rude arse, had obviously preceded him.

"Um- Mr. Holmes?" it was presented as a question, but the woman knew exactly whom she addressed.

The Doctor smiled, startling the woman. Her badge was in her front pocket, and he caught a glimpse of her name. "Cassandra!" He replied amiably, like she was someone he hadn't seen in forever. "What can I do for you?"

Cassandra blinked. Of all things he could have said, she did not imagine him saying _that_. "I-um, can you sign?" she extended a paper detectives sign after seeing a crime scene.

The Doctor nodded, albeit confused, but compliant. As his pen hit the paper, he glanced up with a quick flick of his eyes. "How's your daughter?" he asked. "A good reader I imagine." The woman didn't catch the Doctor's pleasantly surprised smirk when he automatically picked up this information.

The smile was carful and small, but genuine all the less, and pride swelled Cassandra's voice, "At the top of her class. She reads books when she's six that are meant for-"

"-children ten and above?" The Doctor finished. It more a statement than a question.

The woman realized then, that this Detective could not possibly know about her daughter, or the child's reading level for that matter… "How do-?"

"You have a children's' book in your purse," he explained, "And I picture of your daughter in the wallet you spilled on the floor. I assumed because she looked young, and the book is for older children, she must be an exceptional reader."

Brown eyebrows flew upward like bird's wings. "Wow," she chuckled, "you really are as clever as they say, although, now that you explain it, it seems pretty simple." The lady smiled, warming to the detective. She accepted back the paper and leaned against the wall next to him.

"Hey, Craig!" she shouted at another officer.

The man in question glanced up, his fiery head bobbed like a candle's flame, "For the last time, it's _Carl_, not _Craig_!"

Brown eyes flew to the ceiling in annoyance, "Yeah, whatever. Get over here!" she shouted

The Doctor's lips (or Sherlock's, if you're being technical) twitched upwards into a smile.

The brown bob turned back to the detective, "Do him," she pointed at the heavy set man called Carl, who stood uncomfortably next to Cassandra and as far away as he could be from not-Sherlock.

The Doctor blinked, "What?"

"Ya know, do what you just did with me. _Deduce_ him." said Cassandra.

Laughing, the Doctor complied; searching through Sherlock's eyes for clues only the detective saw. "You're a new father with a wife who adores you, but you don't think you deserve. You're not quite sure how to handle your son, no matter what you tell everyone. A devoted couch potato and stay-at-home sort of guy, but you're trying to pull away from that by getting an active job like this." The Doctor smirked once more.

Carl's face slackened like a deflating balloon. His mouth dropped open as he stuttered, "I- wow, that's- that's amazing! How- how'd you do that?"

"Magic," the Doctor teased, imitating sparkles with his fingers.

Carl relaxed visibly. Maybe this Sherlock Holmes wasn't as lofty as they said...

Within three minutes flat, the Doctor was invited to the dining table where eight or so officers were. Talking and laughing casually with the group, he almost looked… _normal_.

_What_?

No one but John and Lestrade noticed when Mycroft walked in through the door. The door handle held his left hand, and his ever-present umbrella held the other. Spying his brother, the English gentlemen let shock give his face a fresh coat of white paint, and he stumbled backwards into John.

Lestrade and John were staring blankly into the dining room, wordless. Now Mycroft joined them. "Good grief." He stated, blinking. Composing himself, his jacket straightened and Mycroft turned to his brother's friends. "I got your call, but I never thought it was-"

"_This_ bad?" Lestrade finished, also gaping. John had begun explaining Sherlock's behavior, but hadn't got far. They were too distracted by Sherlock. "What is he on?"

John sighed in exasperation, "Nothing, as far as Molly says." His lip indented when he bit it, "He's just _like_ this."

Mycroft nodded, recalling their conversation over the phone. "And he thinks he's-?"

"The Doctor? Yeah." John answered.

Lestrade blinked in disbelief, "Wait, _what_? Like _Doctor Who_? The Sci-Fi show almost everyone likes _except_ Sherlock?"

John smirked despite himself, "Yeah, that one."

Snorting, Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "Well I can vouch, he's never seen the show- his own decision."

"Then where's he getting all of this?" Lestrade asked.

"I haven't the faintest," the brother's mouth murmured, "I suppose he must have picked it up somewhere, he's got quite an imagination…"

John shook his head of blondish-grey hair, "It's astounding. I drilled him on the way to Molly's. He knows everything there is to know…"

"Crap." Lestrade groaned at the floor, pinching between his eyebrows with two fingers. "What do we do?"

Mycroft bounced on his toes for a moment, "I'll talk to him." He started forward.

A strong hand gripped his arm, and Mycroft gave John a 'back-off' look. Glancing away, John quickly removed his hand, "Mycroft, he might not kn-"

He stopped talking because Mycroft was already crossing the room, his shoes clapping with the floor. The gentleman hesitated for a moment like a lonely child on the edges of a playground, but soon strode forward, tapping his brother on the shoulder. Not-Sherlock turned, a question drawn on his face. "Hello." He said, neither friendly nor malevolent.

"Sherlock," Mycroft murmured sternly, but with an undertone of concern. "Come over here for a moment."

The Doctor glanced over the richly dressed man with that peculiar umbrella. It was a wonder the wind had not inverted it while he strode in. Shrugging, he left his new-found friends and followed the strange man.

Mycroft felt an unfamiliar prick of pain when he saw the lack of recognition in his brother's blue, or occasionally green eyes, like a thin needle inserted between his ribs. How could Sherlock not recognize his _brother_, of all people?

The pair traveled toward John and Lestrade, forming a square with their four bodies as the walls. Immediately, the Doctor met John's gaze, asking for help. John's heart sank. He didn't know who Mycroft was. He could see that Mycroft knew this also because of the sour expression somewhere between pain and anger that the gentleman wore.

John sighed, "Sherlock, this is your brother… Mycroft Holmes."

The Doctor jumped visibly, realizing how horrible it must be to think Sherlock did not recognized his own family. Quickly, he reappraised Mycroft. Just like the Doctor remembered from his reading, Mycroft was the perfect gentleman. "Well this is awkward.," not- Sherlock murmured. He attempted to regain ground, "I would have pretended to recognize you if I'd known who you are..."

The look on Mycroft's face told the Doctor that was not quite the right thing to say. "Drat it, Sherlock!" the gentleman whisper-shouted. "I would have noticed either way, and what would it matter if you pretended or not? You don't know who I am upon sight. That is not good!"

The Doctor scratched the back of his neck, "Yes, right, sorry. I'm sure Sherlock can apologize later…"

"Oh, not that again." John breathed.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said slowly, "You _are_ Sherlock."

"Hum- yes, well, no. Not really- no, actually no, not at all. I got put _inside_ him, but it doesn't mean I'm _actually_ Sherlock Holmes, that's ridiculous. How many times do I have to explain this?" The Doctor was talking louder than he should have by the end of his answer, and his friends hushed him. Some of the officers glanced over in curiosity, but gradually dribbled away and joined conversations of their own when the group grew quiet.

Mycroft was visibly pale, "Sherlock, tell me you're joking."

The Doctor glanced at Mycroft Holmes sadly, "I wish I could, but as it is, until I can disprove it, which I will, you're going to have to continue believing your brother has gone mad." He gave a quirky smile, like it didn't bother him much what they thought, but of course, this was not true. It was only to settle their nerves.

John nodded, not wanting to argue, and moving the conversation along, "I think we should get you home, Sherlock."

Sighing, the Doctor rolled his eyes, "But we were having so much fun!" he teased. Everyone was too disturbed to be amused, instead aping to walk him and John to the door. John offered to go to Bakers street with not-Sherlock. They all thought it best if he stayed the night there.

The rain fled from the sky at a ferocious speed, slamming into the concrete and drumming on leaves as it fell. Reluctant, John stepped onto the porch and shifted his jacket to cover his head more efficiently. "Come on, Sherlock." He urged to his friend, who's face was completely blank. Frowning, John turned for a better look at him. "You all right?" the question was breathed into the cool night air.

The Doctor frowned, "I- I dunno." He shook himself, closing his jacket, "Just sort of dizzy for a moment. I'm alright now."

Nodding reluctantly, John turned toward the watery onslaught, "Let's go then, I'll catch us a cab."

The moment John stepped onto the brick walkway and in the rain, he felt the water sneak into his socks. Grumbling, John raced to the road, hearing not-Sherlock's footsteps behind him. He reached the curb and extended his arm, silently cursing the rain, the sky, his friend's predicament… the world in general. This whole day was putting him in a bad mood, and he wanted desperately to curl up on the couch with his wife, turn on a film, and forget about everything else. Of course, life never gives us exactly what we want, does it?

John realized then he could not hear Sherlock behind him. His arm flopping to his side, he swiveled around, expecting to see the Detective lagging behind, his interest caught by some item, however he was met by a much stranger sight.

Within the house, Cassandra frowned in confusion. She held up the signature the Detective had just signed, and another one he had done about a week ago. Biting her lip, Cassandra approached Mycroft Holmes, daunted by his air of superiority. "Mycroft Holmes?" she asked.

Mycroft shook himself from his thoughts and glanced at the small woman. "What do you want?" He glanced at his watch.

Cassandra held out the two papers. "Which signature is your brother's?" she murmured.

With a frown, Mycroft snatched them from her hands, 'both of them, obvious-" he stopped, looking in full at the papers. "Well, I-" he pointed at the older paper. "That's Sherlock's signature, who wrote the other?"

Cassandra shook her head, "That's where it's confusing, Mr. Holmes. The man who just left, he signed the paper, but if writing can say anything, the same person did not do it. It appears that that man is not your brother."

Mycroft felt worry itch his fingertips, "Preposterous! Thank you Ms. for informing me, but you are mistaken." He firmly handed her the papers.

"But, sir-"she sputtered.

"Leave it be!" He spat, confusion making him harsh, "You're mistaken," Mycroft turned away from the woman and peered out the window.

Cassandra hesitated for a moment, deciding whether she should insist on the matter or not. Frowning, she sighed and turned away. The gentleman probably knew what he was doing.

Mycroft heard the woman's footsteps as she padded catlike into the other room. Breathing a sigh of relief, he tried to spot the fleeing figures John, and his brother. What was going on? How could Sherlock not have the same signature?

He frowned, finally locating John. The blonde haired man turned at the edge of the street, appearing to search for someone. After a moment, John's eyes found Sherlock, and Mycroft saw his brother at the same moment. Not-Sherlock was standing stalk still, the rain running in rivets through his black hair. Concern filled Mycroft's normally cold stone heart. Something was wrong, _really_ wrong. He could feel it.

Abandoning his umbrella, Mycroft yanked the door open and stumbled onto the porch. "Sherlock!" he cried. He ignored the glances of confusion from the officers

Not- Sherlock turned his head toward his brother. "I know what's happening." He shouted through the rain. A look between fear and understanding was in his blue/green eyes. John was beside the detective now.

"What?" John asked.

The Doctor's head was pounding. He knew he only had a few moments, "The statues, John, why were there so many statues? Why?"

Mycroft frowned, "What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

The Doctor coughed, stumbling. John caught him. "Everyone needs to get out of that house," the Doctor cried. He stared at John, realization dawning on the detective's face. "That's why she sent me here." He laughed.

John was terrified. "Sherlock, calm down, I'm going to take you ho-"

"NO!" the Doctor interrupted. He threw himself away from the two men. "Don't you understand? I'm not the only one who got through; I wasn't even the first!" Suddenly a spark, more like a crack of light, actually, the Doctor thought later, ripped the air in front of not-Sherlock. He collapsed over his stomach. Looking up at John for the last time, Sherlock's eyes shined impossibly gold. Then, like a puppet with cut strings, the detective collapsed in a conglomeration of rain, mud, dark hair, and a coat to match.

Not-Sherlock's last words stared up at John and echoed like a mantra, "Don't blink. For Rasillon's sake, don't blink."

* * *

**AN: Oh My Gosh! I am truly evil. I'm having a hard time believing I can actually be this evil, making you hang of this cliff for a week. Maybe I'll be kind and update sooner… _maybe_. Several reviews would certainly motivate me. '_Evil laugh'_. Yeah, so stay tuned, and reminder not to say what's happening, even though it is smacking you in the face. I do adore PMing though… Oh, and also, not sure if anyone noticed, but Carl/Craig is the 'real' parallel world version of Craig Owens, who the Doctor hasn't met yet. It was totally random, but sort of cool in my opinion. Anyway, until next time...**


	11. Chapter 11

0o0o0o

The Doctor gasped, jumping out of his skin, or rather, into it. His greenish hazel eyes flew open, and weakness filled his legs. For a moment he felt like throwing up, but then strength rushed through the Time Lord and the Doctor straightened. _What an odd sensation_, he thought disjointedly, _to wake up standing._

Then he remembered. John and Mycroft, and the rain… rain washing away the evidence of angels. Was he right in his thinking? Could something from his universe besides him have gotten through? It had to be the crack, the crack that wouldn't stop following them, the crack in Amy's wall. If he was right, then that would give reason to the TARDIS's seemingly random action of sending her thief into Sherlock's universe. Shuttering, the Doctor held up his hands, but the air was pitch black around him. He hopped he was wrong.

Quickly doing an inventory, the Doctor touched each appendage as he spoke its name. "Hands- check. Legs- check. Knees- check." He grinned,snapping the elastic "Suspenders- check." He toggled with the fabric around his neck, "Bowtie- still cool."

Thank Rassilon, he was himself again! The Doctor laughed aloud, doing a small hop step. His hearts beat rapidly in his chest, livening his senses. Now, where was he?

The Doctor reached forward with porcelain-colored hands. About three feet from him, a glasslike resistance met his fingertips. He turned in a circle, feeling the resistance trace around him. "Trapped." The Doctor murmured, "Right- okay. I'm myself again, stuck in the dark, in a glass tube with no obvious means of escape." A wild grin lit his eyes. "Brilliant!"

However, a stray thought tiptoed through his head, raining on his jubilant mood. The Doctor paused. Where was Amy? The Doctor knew he wasn't in the TARDIS, otherwise he would feel their physic connection tugging in the back of his mind. Was Amy trapped here also? In another cage? He hoped not. Hearts speeding up and eyebrows creased together in worry, the child of Gallifrey paced in extremely small circles. Being stuck in a giant test tube was never good news.

Frowning, the Doctor tapped the floor. Maybe if he had his-

The Doctor scrambled for the pocket of his jacket, only to discover he wasn't wearing one. What happened while he was out? "Why is everything so bloody _difficult_?" he muttered, leaning his head against the glass. The Doctor cupped his hands around his eyes and squinted. He couldn't make anything out. If he had his sonic, the Doctor would be out of here without a second thought. Unfortunately, his screwdriver could be anywhere and even if he did know where it was, the Doctor had no way of retrieving the device. "I need a plan." He whispered to himself. "And a proper good one at that."

The Doctor smirked; it's not like this was an unusual circumstance in the life he led. "I am the king of in-prompt-to." He chuckled, and then grimaced, "No, no- that's a rubbish title..."

He planned to continue talking to himself until he hit upon an escape route, but instead the Doctor felt metal clamps enclose themselves around his ankles. He jumped, whisper-shouting in Gallifreyan expletives that would have made Amy Pond's ears bleed.

"Oi! Not so tight!' he shouted to no one in particular. The clamps tightened and the Time Lord wobbled. "Great, oh this _perfect_. Not only am I locked in a test tube, but my captors feel it's necessary to _glue_ me to the bloody _floor_!" he smirked in spite of himself, his arms floundering in the air. Losing his balance, the Gallifreyan tumbling ungracefully to the floor with his feet still clamped. "Right," he said to the ground. "Less falling and more escaping, that's what I need."

Suddenly, the world began to tip, the ground slowly turning. The Doctor yelped, slipping sideways down the revolving walls. "NO! No! Stop that! Don't! STOP!"

The floor was being berated by the Oncoming Storm, the Bringer of Darkness, the Madman with a Box. And honestly, the floor didn't give a crap.

It continued to tilt, and the Doctor was quite suddenly grateful for the metal clamps around his ankles, however, he would never say that. No one really enjoys hanging upside-down like a hunk of cold meat.

Within three minutes, the entire cell had been inverted. The interesting part was that no one would ever know by the way the Doctor stood, his hands crossed over his chest. However, his normally floppy hair stuck up comically and ruined the effect.

"Excuse me?!" he called out to no one in particular. "Sorry to be impatient, but I'd really like to know what exactly is going on here!"

No answer.

"Typical." The Doctor muttered, letting his arms hang in the air now. A rubber ball, three balls of string, a thingamajig, and seven pencils dropped from his pant pockets into the depths below. "Oh nice one!" he shouted sarcastically, "that was my favorite Vortoligimagnitizer!" He was referring to the thingamajig.

The blood rushed to the Doctor's head the longer he was upside down, and he knew the effect would eventually render him unconscious. It was really necessary to come with a plan right about now. He felt the air shift around him for a moment, and the glass lost its tint. It was still hardly possible to look out, but the glass seemed at least _slimmer_ now.

"HELLLOOO!" he shouted, banging the sides. "You're grandmother was a donkey and your father was from Raxacoricofallapatorius! Well…" the doctor paused, "That might actually be true, for all I know, since I HAVE NO IDEA WHO I'M TALKING TO!"

Then he got a response. "Will you shut your trap you blubbering idiot! You're going to get us all killed!" Irish accent, the Doctor registered, or at least it sounded like htat.

"We're gonna die anyway…" muttered another voice, this time from the Doctor's left. The Doctor closed his eyes and then opened them again, waiting to adjust to the darkness. If he looked closely, he could just barely see ten or more tubes like his own all around him. They were all empty except for the tubes to his immediate right and left.

"My apologies," the Doctor said, "But I really would like to know where I am, since I have no memory of getting here."

There was a sad chuckle from the first voice, "Ye don't remember? How's that?"

A frown drooped over the Doctor's completion, "What do you mean?"

This time the other voice answered. The Doctor recognized it as female now. "He means how do you not recall being caught wandering Uptop without papers. It's not the sort of thing one forgets." There was an undertone of dread in the woman's voice.  
The Doctor blinked, devouring this new information. "Right…You'll probably think I'm an idiot but-"

"Oh, that's already been established, sonny," said the Irish man.

The Doctor ignored the interruption. "What exactly is 'Uptop'?"

Then both of his fellow prisoners laughed a sad laugh. "Jeeze. They must have really hit you hard."

"They hit me?" the Doctor reached up an arm and quickly retracted. A sharp pain shot through his head where a large bump had formed.

"You were unconscious when they brought you in here," supplied the female. "Tried to escape?"

"I, um…" the Doctor paused. Who was being him when the Doctor was out? It seemed a lot had happened. "I don't quite know…" he began, lies dribbling through his lips, "It's a bit fuzzy, but escaping sounds like something I'd do- or rather, _try_ to do."

The Irishman chuckled, "I'm with ye there, sonny."

The Doctor imagined the female nodding, "Amnesia?" she asked.

"… Something like that."

There was a small click, like an air release. Both prisoners held their breaths, like they knew what was coming next. "Well ye do better not ta knock your noggin about it. We've got bigger problems 'bout now," whispered the Irishman.

"Like what?"

"The Games." Both prisoners said simultaneously. In that moment the crack of a doorway appeared below the prisoners, blinding white light flooding through it. Slowly the prisoners were lowered.

With a quite whisper, the Doctor shielded his eyes, "Geronimo..."

* * *

_**AN: Sorry it's so short, I've been REALLY busy finishing school. Anyway, here we go! Geronimo!**_


End file.
